


Random Struggles With A Salty Leprechaun

by lux_permanet



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman, mad sweeney - Fandom
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Leprechauns, One Shot Collection, Smut, various prompts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-01
Updated: 2017-10-01
Packaged: 2019-01-07 15:06:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12235320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lux_permanet/pseuds/lux_permanet
Summary: An advice: do not make bargains with leprechauns, and do not take them home. Ever.





	Random Struggles With A Salty Leprechaun

There is magic happening in the sky. Mother nature truly knows best how to be pretentious with her makeup at dawn, blending together the mesmerizing shades of orange and pink on the horizon, highlighting the terrible mistake I’ve made. It’s beautiful, almost idyllic in a messed up, blood boiling way as the sunset takes her time to emphasize my failed plan. Not like he needs to be emphasized any further, he’s already a goddamn giant.

“To Irish men!” I haven’t seen her this ecstatic since the first time she went skydiving a few years ago, yet here we are, her hand tugs at the rolled up sleeve of Sweeney’s shirt, raising the glass to the sky with the other.

“To the birthday gal. That cake was lit on fire, how old are you?” Manners, the pastime of the weak. He’s got a billion coins and zero fucks to give about decency.

“Eighty. All the way.”

“Eighty? You don’t look a day older than seventy-nine.” I’m either in a champagne coma or he really does turn around an insult to make my grandmother giggle like a teen girl.

“You savage.” She goes as far as pinching his cheek before ceremoniously flushing the golden liquid down her throat in sync with the big man.

I’m shook.

All the time and effort that went into impressing both ends of the matriarchy by bringing lawyers and doctors to the table just to see them pout at my trivial choices. How could I dazzle someone with a Prince Charming when they’re way more stirred up by the methods of the Camorra? It’s too late now, the damage is done. I was an evil mastermind for a whole, hot minute.

“You like your whiskey as you like your men, don’t ya? Thick and ready to smash you against the nearest wall?” I kick him softly under the table. Dipping my heels into his balls would probably make a clearer point but I constantly need to remind myself about the bargain we made.

Sweeney’s the one giving me a favor, whether I’m pleased with the outcome or not, and he’s living every moment of it, having a blast on my expense. Of course, he does, I’ll be the one having to even out the debt and it’s most likely he will find creative ways to hand in the receipt.

“You bet your sweet ass, I do.”

I’m more than ferocious, he’s purposefully leaving me hot and bothered with that deep chuckle, fluttering a pair of fingers towards grandma as she’s attempting to get back on the grand trip of guest entertainment. I can’t physically roll my eyes any harder, he’s using my last nerve as a jump rope.

“You’re having fun?” He lights up a cigarette, tasting every last bit of the woody, aromatic smoke before emptying his lungs out. I lean forward on the table with a desperate need to get a hold on my self-control, flashing a wide smile, not because he makes me particularly jubilant but rather as a demonstration of the teeth I will sink into his thighs. “I should reach out right now, grab your neck and strangle you.”

“Come at me.”  Fucking leprechaun. He’s the permanent itch in my palm. I could slap him back to the other side of the rainbow and bury him under that pot of gold. It’s getting more difficult to sit still. He knows how to effectively provoke the hellfire out of me, and while he’s at it, planting a second heartbeat right between my legs.  _Fucking_ leprechaun, marinating in hard liquor and his own grandeur.

“ _Cunt._ ”

“I wouldn’t plagiarize. It might go straight up on your list with the rest.”

“What list? Did I miss the terms and conditions part?” A nasty grin starts spreading across his face, I know that one from a hundred miles away. It’s a menace, a silent promise of ruin, it’s forcing me to cross my legs tighter and to feel contented about the oversized, fluffy tablecloth and its bountiful ways to cover the instant reaction. According to the usual dramaturgy, this is the part where he would put the glass down in slow motion, breaking the fragile body of the unfinished cigarette on the bottom of an ashtray before ripping his clothes off, all tight and beyond ready to fight. Except that it’s not the path of routine tonight.

“One: the company.” He lifts an index finger between us, stabbing a greedy stare into mine. It’s simply astonishing how completely indifferent he is about fair play. “Two: the shirt.” He adds another finger to the symbolism and I’m sort of impressed. Where’s an adequate textbook when I need to identify if this is what a thirsty leprechaun looks like?

“Aren’t you the priciest whore I’ve ever had? Do you charge tax as well?” He can’t genuinely think I won’t wave goodbye to my morals and sink low enough to reach his level of dirt. He wants to play filthy? We’ll play it filthy. Adapt or die, that’s the philosophy. “God, you must be so worn out by all the immense work you’ve done for me. May I recompense your highness with a relaxing massage right here on the spot?”

I don’t wait for Sweeney to swallow the last bit of Southern Comfort and have a chance to accept the offer but strike like a predator and take advantage of his most vulnerable state instead. He’s got a mouthful of whiskey and my fingertips on the bare skin of his collarbone.  _Touché_. I’m standing unreasonably close behind his back, feeling his muscles stiffen, still not over the assault he just had. It took barely a second, nobody noticed. Only the two of us knows it happened. He groans lightly, I’m far from gentle with my thumbs digging deeper into his shoulders. “I charge for everything.” He fails miserably at sounding effortless.

“First of all, thank you for the company, my king. It really is an honor to assist you swigging the bar out of stock. The way you partake in my formal dismantling with such discipline and glee makes me wipe a single tear of joy away.” I switch the attack from his shoulders to the back of his neck, moving up and down leisurely, vertebra by vertebra, cutting his chuckle short. I prefer him hissing instead. “Second of all, my apologies for forcing you into something slightly more civil for the sake of the occasion instead of that piece of dishcloth, you nobly refer to as a shirt. I mean, you must have looked dandy as fuck in it. Sometime around the 18th century.”

Sweeney inhales heavily through the nose. There’s a sort of indefinable, agitating threat oozing out of his pores, making me want to push my luck even further. “I will rip you to shreds.”

My mother waves at us from a nearby table, signaling that she’s about to descend and have a word with the grittiest man I’ve ever presented, the one who finally doesn’t bore her to death. And I honestly thought the mohawk itself could have been enough to get us both expelled right at the entrance, gaining me the prize of never to be invited to family gatherings again. Must have forgotten about  _The Irish Charm_ , I guess.

“You might.”

He reaches back to grab my wrist into an iron grip, pulling me to the side by a single move. The expression on his face is pleasantly satisfying. From the corner of my eyes, I see a strawberry colored silhouette moving closer, ready to feast on the prey like only a caring mother would. I’m her steady main course but tonight, she found herself a brand new favorite dessert. I’m ready to offer her the ginger as a holy sacrifice, but I can’t find the words. Nor my voice. I stand there with a gaping mouth, dumbfounded by the immense atrocity while losing the second time in the same game on the same night again. How much more concerned would my mother look like if she’d know about the hardness of our current situation? The one that’s pressing urgently against my back.

“Let’s dance.” It’s more of a statement rather than an invitation, whispered avidly into my hair.

I comply. He walks tightly behind me, we march together like a mini army. Left, right. Left. I take the lead and he follows willingly, for now. The dancefloor is jam-packed with seniors showing their acrobatic rock and roll skills to Elvis’ Little Less Conversation while the rest of the audience stares at their capability with all sorts of envy and chronic back pain. Their moves are marvelous, the energy is concentering around them like a glowing disco ball.

I swallow hard, leaning back to Sweeney instinctively with the brazen purpose of getting a clearer impression of his firm condition. The music graciously devours the sound that’s escaping my mouth. He’s enhancing the grasp around my hand as a mute indication of disapproval. We aim to the far end of the rectangularly shaped floor, passing by the hysterically dancing pairs. The track reaches the climax before it cuts out and that moment of silence feels like a blow in the brain.

Since leprechauns do not originate from Boogie Wonderland as far as my extensive Irish folklore knowledge goes, I’m both intrigued and terrified to find out how he’s planning on dropping down the good old, classic dance moves á la Celts. I’d take a moment to indulge in the imagery but he turns me around and grabs me sturdily like a man should grab a woman in the heat of an ongoing cat-and-mouse game where both parties strive to be the hunter and nobody wants to be the prey. Funnily enough, two hunters without a target will end up pointing their guns at each other anyway. What’s the moral of the story? Every predator is, initially, also a prey. Sweeney disregards the music as it is, leading assertively enough to make me slow dance to a non-existing song while everyone else keeps on pumping their muscles to ‘70s disco music. I wish he’d be at least a tiny bit mediocre or a little gawky with his twelve feet long legs and body language, but he’s not even good. He’s magnificent. I’m laughing in a helpless rage.

“Are these your dancing shoes or you’re meaning to tell me that you, the cuntiest cunt ever to cunt in a radius of a thousand miles, can actually dance like this? Pinch me.” He shrugs lightly, pinching my left asscheek without a trace of delicacy. Who’s the smuggest of them all? His grin is anything but carefree, the rigidness keeps on increasing between us. I bang my head against his shoulder as the nearest solid surface. I’ve wanted a few things in my life. A fine selection of wines, a peaceful fifteen minutes for the first cup of coffee in the morning, a hot bubble bath, even men sometimes, yet nothing compares to the level of distress he’s giving me by over-estimating the range of my tolerance. He _does_ want me to beg. “Set forth your fucking demands, you jerk.”

“I want pancakes. With honey.” I’m squinting my eyes at him with fury, unable to comprehend how is he not missing a step regardless of the situation, still having the nerve to toy with me. His eyes are blazing with a wicked, green flame. “I want the rest of that massage and I want you to finish what you have started, thoroughly.”

“Come again? What  _I_  have started? We settled on a simple and clean agreement which you have accepted just to omit your side of the obligations entirely. Fake date, the theme was fake date. Not a misbehaving slut and a dipsomaniac pimp.”

“Misbehaving you are but the dress is rather impressive, sweetheart.” He’s drawing circles with a thumb on the small of my back, enjoying every bit of himself. I’m torn between laughing maniacally or kneeing the leprechaun in the dick. It has to be given for Sweeney, his methods are staggering. Hair-raising but definitely staggering.

“You’re the slut, you slut. Where was this part of the agreement?” I can’t even decide where to gesture to accentuate my point. He’s put the white button down on, yes. Has he buttoned it down as it was intended? No. He’s wearing it tight and formal, tucked in the tweed pants nicely, completed with the usual set of suspenders. Except that the shirt is open halfway down his chest, flashing a considerable amount of freckled skin and a handful of fantasies of all kinds. “No wonder you function like a human fly-paper, of course, they stick to you. They would eat you up. General Mills’ dream in a nutshell. I’m the one doing you a favor, gingerbread.”

“You do, I can tell. I won’t hesitate to thank you once you’re already squirming in my hands.”


End file.
